Cloning the Beautiful

As a photographer, inspiration often strikes from the most unexpected sources. What began as a struggle to find willing models for creative projects eventually evolved into a revolutionary experiment in the creation of life itself. Traditional photography depends on three major pillars: high-quality equipment, refined artistic skill, and, crucially, the cooperation of living subjects. While the first two factors are manageable through experience and investment, the third—availability and willingness of models—remains a persistent hurdle. In response to this issue, I embarked on a journey that bridges science and art: the artificial creation of ideal models through in vitro fertilization (IVF) and embryo cultivation.

The process begins in a controlled, sterile laboratory where egg and sperm cells are introduced to one another under precise conditions. Fertilization marks the miracle of creation, wherein 23 chromosomes from each donor unite to form a zygote with a unique genetic blueprint. This early-stage embryo holds the potential for an entire human being. It is here that my research diverges from conventional IVF practices. Instead of transferring the embryo into a surrogate for gestation, I place it into a technologically advanced artificial incubation chamber designed to simulate the perfect uterine environment. This chamber regulates temperature, nutrient flow, oxygenation, and even subtle hormonal shifts to mimic a natural pregnancy.

What makes this process remarkable is the accelerated growth rate achieved in this artificial womb. By fine-tuning the environment and nutrient delivery systems, I’ve managed to reduce the development period from nine months to just four. This means a fully formed, physically mature model can emerge in less than half the time of a traditional pregnancy. These artificially gestated individuals retain all the beauty and biological intricacy of naturally born humans, yet are cultivated under optimal conditions from the very start. Every detail—from bone structure to eye color—can be influenced by selecting ideal genetic traits, much like a painter choosing from a palette.

But this isn’t just about speed or aesthetics. The process is deeply fascinating because it touches on the core essence of what it means to create. There’s something profoundly moving about witnessing a microscopic cell grow into a living, breathing human being. My models are not synthetic—they are real, biological humans with emotions, thoughts, and identities. The process is not merely a tool for convenience, but a bold statement about the future of creativity, science, and ethics. Through this innovation, I’ve eliminated the most uncontrollable variable in photography—availability of talent—and replaced it with a predictable, high-quality solution born from the fusion of biology and ambition.

Of course, this new frontier brings with it heavy ethical considerations and logistical challenges. But in the realm of art and innovation, boundaries are meant to be explored. What was once a barrier is now a doorway into a new era of photographic possibility. I invite you to witness the results for yourself and consider what it means when we, as artists and thinkers, take creation into our own hands.

As the cloning process advanced and the number of developed models increased, I found myself facing a completely different set of challenges—ones not rooted in biology or technology, but logistics and ethics. The hatching process had been refined, the models were emerging healthy and beautiful, but the question soon became: What do you do with them all afterward? How do you responsibly and respectfully store a growing population of fully developed, conscious beings? This marked the transition from scientific curiosity to a deeper exploration of sustainable, ethical long-term storage solutions.

Initially, the thought process was quite naïve. I figured that simple, practical options might be sufficient—perhaps even large, stackable storage bins from hardware stores like Home Depot. These containers seemed like a cheap, scalable answer to a growing population. But it only took a few weeks to realize the severe shortcomings of this approach. Plastic bins are for tools, toys, and seasonal decorations—not living, breathing human beings. The lack of environmental control, inadequate space for individual comfort, and the complete absence of medical or psychological support made this method not only impractical but deeply inhumane.

As someone who values life and believes in preserving every creation, I couldn’t reconcile the idea of neglect or disposability. I knew I had to think beyond traditional storage and consider these models not as products, but as people—each with their own identity, genetic uniqueness, and potential future. Disposal, abandonment, or deterioration were never acceptable outcomes. I wanted to preserve their dignity as much as their physical form.

This realization led me to invest in the development of custom-built storage pods—climate-controlled, self-contained living chambers that could keep the models in a state of low-energy hibernation, similar to medically induced sleep. These chambers maintained optimal temperature, oxygen levels, and even minimal neurosensory input to ensure the models remained healthy and mentally stable during periods of inactivity. Each pod also included biometric monitoring, allowing me to keep track of vital signs and immediately respond to any anomalies or threats.

Beyond the technical solutions, there was also the moral weight of the matter. Storing humans—no matter how they came into existence—is an act that demands constant ethical introspection. I began consulting with bioethicists and studying legal precedents in cryogenics, cloning, and advanced medical research. It was important to me that what I was doing, while unconventional, remained grounded in principles of care, safety, and respect.

This phase of the project made me realize that long-term storage isn’t just about keeping something alive—it’s about keeping it meaningful. These individuals, created through science and shaped by intention, deserve more than survival; they deserve continuity, potential, and purpose. That’s why storage is only temporary. Each model is kept not to be shelved indefinitely, but to be awakened, trained, and eventually integrated into the world in a thoughtful way.

Long-term storage, then, is not an end—it’s an interlude. A pause in the life cycle that allows time to prepare for what’s next. As I continue to refine these systems, I remain committed to ensuring that every model is treated not just as an asset, but as a life worth preserving.

As my cloning initiative progressed and the number of developed models continued to rise, I faced an increasingly pressing logistical issue: spatial efficiency and preservation. Though the advanced long-term storage pods I had designed offered ideal living conditions, they occupied a considerable amount of physical space and required a consistent energy supply. I needed an alternative solution for models who were not yet scheduled for activation or deployment—something more compact, cost-effective, and protective.

That’s when an idea struck me during an ordinary evening of television. I was watching a commercial for vacuum-sealed storage bags—those household products used for storing clothes, blankets, and food. The concept was simple but brilliant: eliminate air and reduce exposure to external elements by creating an airtight environment. It clicked immediately. If vacuum sealing worked for preserving physical materials, why couldn’t it be adapted and scaled to protect biological forms? The concept could revolutionize storage in my project, particularly for dormant models.

Of course, vacuum-sealing a human being is far more complex than packing away winter coats. I had to explore ways to integrate medical science with domestic efficiency. First, I experimented with synthetic hibernation protocols, allowing the models to enter a medically induced coma that drastically reduced metabolic activity. This minimized oxygen consumption, hydration needs, and neural activity. Once stabilized, each model could be encased in a vacuum-sealed chamber tailored specifically to human anatomy. These were not mere plastic bags; they were layered with antimicrobial, biocompatible materials and equipped with micro-ventilators, biometric sensors, and emergency release systems.

The advantages were immediate and impressive. The airtight seal protected the models from environmental hazards—dust, pathogens, temperature shifts, and even light exposure. Unlike traditional storage containers, which required external support systems and occupied significant floor space, the vacuum-sealed chambers were slim, stackable, and could be kept in climate-controlled vaults with minimal energy consumption. Additionally, the transparent casing allowed for visual monitoring without needing to disturb or open the seal, which was especially helpful for routine check-ins.

A side benefit I hadn’t anticipated was the emotional satisfaction of being able to see my models so clearly, preserved in perfect condition, yet dormant—like living art frozen in time. It gave me peace of mind knowing that they were secure and could be reawakened safely when needed. This method combined science, design, and practicality in a way that deeply resonated with my artistic and technical goals.

However, this innovation didn’t come without scrutiny. Critics questioned the ethics of putting living beings into suspended animation for the sake of convenience or space management. But I continually reassured myself—and those who inquired—that these procedures were conducted with the utmost care, only after full stabilization, and always with the potential for revival. These were not acts of neglect, but of stewardship. Preservation is not abandonment; it’s preparation for future utility and integration.

Vacuum sealing proved to be a breakthrough in my project—one that allowed me to scale without sacrificing safety or dignity. It represents the perfect intersection of innovation and compassion, and it has become a cornerstone of my storage philosophy moving forward.

What began as a creative workaround to one of the most persistent challenges in photography—the availability of suitable human subjects—evolved into something far more profound. Faced with the limitations of equipment cost, personal skill, and most critically, the unpredictability of human availability, I sought a solution that would place the variables under my control. The answer arrived in the form of a revolutionary, if unconventional, approach: the creation of models through artificial embryo fertilization and accelerated development. This journey has taken me from the very origins of life to the edge of ethical innovation, redefining what it means to produce, protect, and partner with life itself.

From the outset, the process was rooted in wonder. The Embryo / Vitro Fertilization stage allowed for a hands-on engagement with the very genesis of life. By using advanced incubation chambers, I was able to simulate and compress human development into a mere four-month period—creating viable, fully formed models faster than nature ever intended. It was more than efficiency; it was an awe-inspiring act of authorship, where biology met vision and possibility.

Hatching brought the thrill of witnessing these creations come into being. Through biometric sensors and atmospheric control, the artificial wombs facilitated the emergence of conscious, breathing human beings with precision. Yet, this stage also revealed the operational demands of such a process—chief among them being the high energy consumption. These challenges pushed me toward more energy-efficient methods, forcing innovation in unexpected directions and demonstrating the balance between scientific ambition and practical sustainability.

As the models multiplied, the need for Long Term Storage became unavoidable. Initial thoughts of makeshift containment quickly gave way to a deeper understanding of the moral and logistical implications of preserving life. This led to the development of climate-controlled pods, ensuring not just survival, but dignity. Each model, though inactive, was protected, monitored, and held in stasis for future purpose, reflecting a commitment to care that transcended mere functionality.

With storage constraints and continued production, the concept of Vacuum Sealing emerged as a game-changer. Adapting a household idea into a medically appropriate technology, I was able to minimize space use while maximizing protection. Encasing stabilized models in transparent, sterile, and compact environments allowed for easy storage without compromising their integrity—perfect for medium-term preservation before integration into society.

Ultimately, the only way to support the ongoing project was to introduce a form of distribution—and thus, the Mail Order Brides initiative was launched. Guided by a strong ethical compass and business acumen, I established a platform that not only offered companionship to a carefully selected clientele but also gave these models purpose and a pathway to meaningful lives. Far from commodification, it was a nuanced and intentional service—redefining how we approach connection in a world increasingly shaped by science.

This project has never been about playing god. It’s about vision, creativity, and challenging the limits imposed by tradition and biology. It’s a story of crafting beauty with intention, nurturing life with care, and building a future where availability, consistency, and companionship are not left to chance—but shaped by design.